


Neighbor

by genop0ke



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Neighbor au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:42:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genop0ke/pseuds/genop0ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insured by an AU thought up by sansismyotp on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neighbor

 

Tord Larsen had been shot right out of the sky by an untied harpoon.

His ears ring, his vision exclusive to the left side of his face, gradually focusing and becoming less of a blur. Dull yet at the same time agonizing pain screams in his right arm, making him have to bite his lip and stifle a pained sob. Even Tord cries, sometimes.

He gets up onto a knee, pushing rubble off of himself with his good arm. His right arm hangs limply at his side, useless. Getting to his feet, he sways from headrush and clutches his damaged limb with his left hand. Blood drenches a lot of his body, staining his carmine pullover with a deep, rusty moisture, coating his hands, face, and right arm in scarlet.

The injured Norwegian shuffles over to the edge of the outcropping he had crashed onto, looking down at three slow figures moving away from the curb. They had watched him fall. They enjoyed seeing him suffer like that, didn’t he? A nauseating mixture of guilt, spite, and sorrow swirls in his gut at the sights and thoughts.

He takes a quick glance around. Grass, scorched patches, dandelions, bits of dirt. It’s just a hill. Nothing too interesting. He must admit, dandelions do have some kind of appeal to him as a flower.

The faint hum of an idling engine is the first thing he hears when the ringing subsides. Good, that high pitched, extended noise had been beginning to give the poor guy a headache. He looks over his shoulder, jumping at the sight of a familiar brunet wrapping gauze around his arm. “...Patryk. You could have said something to let me know you were there.” Tord weakly muses, his voice rough. He must have screamed on the way down.

“I did, sir. I thought you went deaf.” His voice is weary, concern deeply rooted in every word. A clammy hand threads through tousled, deep brown hair, bluish gray eyes looking over his leader in full. Tord looks bad. “Are you quite alright?”

“Does he look alright, Dupske?” A man with shorter, lighter hair scoffs, lighting a cigarette and sticking the unlit end between his teeth, scratching at stubble with bitten-down nails. “He just fell out of the sky, we should be relieved he only got this.”

“Right, right. No need to be rude, Paul.” Patryk goes silent for a few long moments, looking at the bloodied eye and warped, burned skin on the right half of Tord’s face. “Do you want anything for your eye?”

Hesitating, Tord replies. “Yes.” He doesn’t feel like he deserves getting patched up and licking his wounds. The pain he deserves. Not the recovery. His friends are hurt, betrayed. One person is dead. Lots of property damage. “We should get going, though.”

A single reddish-brown iris trains on a robotic arm laying on the ground. Why was it a good idea to put so many spare arms in the cockpit, where they could easily be used to attack him with? He doesn’t know, but at least one survived. He’d need this spare arm. Not for the robot, but for himself.

Paul climbs into the driver’s seat of the small red car, draping an arm out of the window while somewhat impatiently waiting for Patryk to assist Tord in getting in. One of his ankles is broken, likely. He’s limping very badly, hints of pain crossing his face with every step. He knows him well enough to recognize when he’s trying to hide emotions. Negative emotions aren’t weak, but Tord insists. “Come on, already.”

“My foot is killing me, Vore, I’m trying my best!” Tord wearily snaps, getting into the back and setting down the arm next to him. Patryk collects some parts that are able to be salvaged and gets them put into one of Tord’s storage cubes, shoving them into the trunk before hopping in next to Paul.

“Now. Now we go.” Patryk huffs, taking a moment to pull the seat belt over himself. Looking back at his leader, he nods to Paul, and the car is shifted into gear.

They drive off to their base, sitting in stiff, awkward silence.

* * *

After pulling off all clothes from his upper body, Tord winces as a nurse gingerly removes the bandages from his arm. The nurse’s eyes widen at the sight. “...this will likely require amputation, sir. There’s notable nerve damage and a lot of burning.”

“I’d like to see for myself.”

“Fine, then, sir.”

The nurse pulls out a mirror, taking a few steps back and letting the mangled Norwegian take a good look at himself. His right eye is discolored, reddened a bit from taking some of the pain, surrounded by second and third degree burns coating his cheek. Deep gashes sit upon his jawline. His right arm has the same treatment, almost looking blackened or melted in some areas. A cringe pulls itself onto his face. He looks like something from a horror movie.

“Well, sir? When do you want treatment for this?”

“Now. Right this instant.”

“You’re still heali--”

“NOW.”

Sighing, the woman moves out of the room, coming back with Tord’s two closest soldiers in tow. “You may want to assist if he refuses sedation. It will hurt a lot.”

The pair nod, jumping a big at the next outburst from Tord. “Just hurry up, I want this useless thing replaced!” He sets himself down on a makeshift operating table, giving an impatient glare to the other tree.

“...right, well, would you like anesthesia?”

“No.”

“I figured as much.” The nurse shakes her head, going and gently cleaning off his right arm with antiseptic. Around the upper half burns with the contact of the solution, causing Tord to writhe slightly, a pained hiss whistling through his teeth. A quiet muttering of “hardass” is tossed aside by the woman.

When the incision is made, Tord learns how bad of a decision it is to refuse anesthetic for this kind of thing.

* * *

“You two will be in charge until I get this arm fitted. Got it?” Tord demands, sitting up in a hospital bed. The infirmary in the base isn’t that big, just a handful of cots set up in a clean room, but it’s comfortable, at least. He idly rubs at the stump of his arm, glancing over at someone in an open part of the room at a table. “I had him come in here and work on the arm nearby so I can monitor what’s done with it. After all, I’m who created the damn thing.”

Paul takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke away from the others. “You need to rest, sir. You only just got an amputation, take a break for a while.”

“I need to make sure the arm is perfect.”

“Yeah? You also need to make sure you don’t deprive yourself of basic needs.” Rolling his eye, Paul goes back to silence and smoking.

Patryk sets a hand on Tord’s shoulder with a smile. “Don’t take him the wrong way, sir, he’s just worried about you. So am I. You really need to rest, though.” At the last sentence, the smile becomes a frown.

Scoffing, Tord lays back, folding his good arm across his chest. “Eh, I might consider it. Sleep is for the weak.”

“Didn’t you once call someone who only had one arm weak, sir?”

“...shut up.”

* * *

A week passes. Tord gets up and stretches his good arm, getting to his feet and walking over to the small workspace. There it is, in all its crimson-colored glory. A grin spreads on his face as he grips the shoulder area of the robotic arm, pulling it up from the table and turning it over in his hand. “...at last. I’ll finally feel complete again.”

“Oh, sir, you’re up!” The one in charge of working on the arm pokes his head into the room, briskly going to his leader. “Do you want to get the arm fitted?”

“Oh, I know it fits. I can feel it. Just get it on.”

Nodding, the man takes the arm in his hands, carefully sliding it over the stump of the arm. A faint stinging sensation goes through the arm as wires connect themselves to nerves within his flesh, and soon enough, the arm comes to life. Technology is amazing. With a prideful chuckle, Tord flexes the new arm, looking at his hands. “Excellent. It fits like a glove. Where are Paul and Patryk?”

“They’re currently eating, sir.”

“Mhm. Go get them. And tell Falsk he’s in charge here, the three of us will be out of the base for very long periods of time.” The man runs off, Paul and Patryk coming in soon after. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yes, Red Leader, sir! We have your belongings put together, everything you asked about. And our own.” The first bit is said simultaneously by both, with the rest being completed by Patryk alone. “We also have your storage cubes.”

Tord internally questions what they mean at first, then lights up with a faintly devious smile. “...ah. Yes. Those. Hand them over.” He holds his hand out, a pile of mechanical cubes dropping into his palm. “Thank you, Paul. These will be very, very important, later.”

He goes into his own quarters with a few empty cubes, getting a few firearms stored within. He then grabs a large backpack, folding together some clothing, putting in some gloves, a hat, and a cheap medical eye patch. Not a legitimate eye patch, but it looks less intimidating than a simple black one. He isn’t going for an intimidating look.

Okay, maybe Tord relies on those cubes a bit too much. All the belongings they’re planning on bringing to their destination is shoved into a few, which are then tucked into a separate area of his backpack. A smaller handgun and some other gadgets are put into the main section with his clothing. Hoisting a strap over his shoulder, he walks out of his room and gestures to the pair. Paul tosses him a set of car keys on their way outside.

All their belongings are thrown into the trunk of a dark gray car. Why would they take Tord’s car if they wanted to be undercover? “4L1GG3” is less conspicuous than “N0R5K1” for a license plate, anyway.

Getting into the driver’s seat, Tord puts the key in and shifts into gear.

* * *

Matt hears some unfamiliar voices coming from the lobby as he returns from a trip to the store, a bag of groceries in hand. He looks around, spotting a strangely familiar triad. They all have a lot of red on, wearing what look like military uniforms. One of the three has light brown hair, spiked up in a very, very familiar style.

Oh.

But the accent he’s using sounds British? That can’t be him.

Might as well tell someone anyway.

He rushes upstairs and drops his groceries into his apartment, running into the nearest room. Tom’s. “Tom! Tom! I have something important!”

“What is it now, Matt?” Tom groans, rubbing his face. He’s in the middle of tuning Susan, damn it! Can’t this dumb ginger’s nonsense wait? “Did you see a cat at the store again?”

“No, no, there’s new people moving in!”

“This again? What, is it one of Eduardo’s friends?”

“No, one of them was Todd!”

With an exasperated groan, Tom puts a hand to his face. His tone of voice is weary, annoyed. “That IS one of Eduardo’s friends, Matt.”

“No, it’s--”

“I’m going to give you five seconds before this bass gets introduced to your face.”

Flinching at the harsh words, Matt backs out. “Fine, fine, sorry!”

Why doesn’t Tom think this is a big deal??

* * *

“Alright, so the first order of business. You two need to lay back. Relax. Be less vigilant, more casual. Got it?”

Patryk raises a brow. “What do you mean, sir? Aren’t we your protectors? Your seconds-in-command?”

“Yes, but this is not a place where I will need constant protection. This is where I need their trust. I genuinely want these people to be my friends again, even if I have to live a double life to do so. We can’t have my insignia visible anywhere in this apartment, and there can’t be anything hinting at my identity here. No weapons directly visible. Not as much red. No… n-no... “ He mutters the last phrase, looking ashamed. “...no hentai.”

“What is a hentai?”

“Paul, if you don’t know what it is, you really do not need to.”

Giving a heavy shrug, Paul sits down on a velvety, white couch. A lot of their furniture is stolen. It’s very easy to use storage cubes for theft. “Fine, then. ...so comfy…” He tiredly murmurs to himself, seeming much more willing to relax than Patryk is.

“You know what? Let’s go get some new clothes. I’m sure it’ll be much easier to keep this act up if we mask our identity, first. As far as anyone knows, I am Lars Thorson. They do not know you, and you two are not at large, so you can use your own names. Understand?”

“Understood, sir.”

“You can be on first-name basis here, boys. It’s fine.”

Tord shoves a medical eye patch over the burnt orb on his face, putting a loose, navy-blue beanie onto his head to keep his hair down. He normally wears contacts, so he puts a blue one in to mask the usual brown color. Putting gloves onto his hands to hide the fact one is a robotic prosthetic, he trades his red pullover for his old black coat and a white tee beneath.

Grabbing the keys to their car, he gestures at the other two after convincing them to go out in just their sweaters, no coat or weapons. “Come on, I know just the place.”

After a few minutes of driving, they arrive at a mall, walking inside. It’s one of those malls where the lobby is a clothing store. Tord pats their shoulders, smiling. “The clothes are on me. Get whatever, just don’t go overboard.” He waves a credit card he snatched from a wealthier recruit of the Red Army at them, gesturing at it.

“Wait, how are you going to use it if it’s not yours?”

“Got everything I need out of them. I’m not going into the details.”

The other two look at each other and shrug, going their separate ways.

* * *

As they get home, they spot the familiar trio coming down the hall. In a bit of a panic, Tord rushes into the apartment, grabbing the wrists of the others. “Faen, en innflytningsfest parti--” He shoves them into the room all their beds are put into, in a state of panic. “Get changed, make sure there’s nothing Red Army related in the living room, I think they’re coming to visit! Overly friendly pieces of… I didn’t want to meet them this soon!”

“Alright, si-- Tord, I’ll be on that.”

Tord goes and nervously sits down on the couch, adjusting his hat and patch as a knock resounds from the surface of his door. He fidgets, going to answer it and coughing some to get into that false British tone of voice. “..er, hello. Are you here for housewarming, or..?” A nervous ‘blue’ eye glances from Edd, to Matt, to Tom.

“Yes, actually! We heard there were new residents, here, and--”

Edd is cut off by Tom making a bitter, resentful comment. “You’re not one of Eduardo’s friends, are you?”

“No, no, not at all! We’re just foreigners that wanted to experience the country, so we moved here!” Hopefully his anxiety can be translated into naivety from being ‘new’ to the country.

Matt, having forgotten about his encounter before, lights up. “Ooh! What country?”

Tord hesitates for a moment. “We’re each from a different Scandinavian country, actually. Met during a… party.”

“So, what’s your name? I’m Edd, and this is Tom and Matt.” He gestures at each of the others as he states their name.

“...Lars.” He tries to not show how distressed he is at the fact Tom’s eyes narrow at that comment.

Tom steps a bit closer, walking inside. “A Scandinavian… named Lars.” He suddenly lights up with a smile. “Never heard of you! Nice to meet you.”

Paul and Patryk step out of the bedroom, wearing new clothes. Paul has a beige-colored dress shirt on, fingering through a carton of cigarettes. Patryk simply has on another turtleneck sweater, except this one is orange in color. “...oh, hey.” The smoker remarks, nodding to the three visitors.

“This is Paul and Patryk-”

“Are they gay?” Tom abruptly snickers. “They just came out of the bedroom together, so-”

Patryk interrupts. “We were looking for something.”

“My cigarettes.” Paul adds, rolling his eye.

“Why does only one of you have both your eyes intact?” Matt muses, pointing at their faces with a curious frown.

“Why does one of you have no eyes?” Paul snips, sticking a cigarette into his mouth. “Rude.”

“So, welcome, feel free to make yourself at home--” Oh, ho. His accent slipped a bit at the end of that.

Tom narrows his eyes, snatching at the hat on ‘Thor’s’ head. It comes off, his hair puffing up with the pair of spikes. Dumb cowlicks, those hairs. “...are you fucking kidding me?!” Anger very quickly seeps into his voice.

“I-I can explain--”

Edd gasps, reaching into his pocket. “I-- should I call someone? He’s wanted, isn’t he..?”

“No, no, I-I’ve changed, I realized the error of my--”

“I told you guys it was Todd!”

“...Tord.”

With a heavy sigh, Tord tries to get the others to calm down. “I got really hurt by that crash, no thanks to Thomas. It was kind of like a… like a reality check, for me. I quit on my dumb world domination plans. I am… sincerely, completely sorry for what I’ve done.”

“How can we believe you?” Edd sighs, sounding betrayed. “You killed one of our neighbors. You nearly killed US.”

“Yes, and I regret that. I regret all of it. I’m turning over a new leaf. Can’t you try to believe me?”

Hesitating, Matt sets a hand on Tord’s shoulder. “I believe you, even if the others don’t. You’re a good person, Tord.”

“...you think so?”

“Alright, let’s stop being mushy, I’m gonna get drunk.” Tom bluntly cuts off the interaction, tugging on Matt’s hood and walking out with hands in his pockets.

Tord waves the three off. “It’ll be just like old times, trust me. I mean it, this time.”

He goes into his room, sticking two of his fingers up and into the air in front of a concealed camera. The salute. He tosses aside the contact, gloves, and hat. Those’ll be needed for being in public, but the rest can stay on.  A panel in the wall shifts,revealing a smaller room repurposed into a new lab, mostly for just keeping track of his own little inventions and weapons. He goes to a closed off part of the room, picking up a handful of cubes and tossing them into the area. They open up, salvaged parts of the large robot emerging and coming to the floor with heavy clunks.

A small smile creeps onto his face as he pulls out a rolled-up blue paper, unfurling it on a tabletop. Plans for a new, improved robot. More sleek, more defensive, more offensive. Less clunky. Definitely less remote control. That was his downfall.

_“...just like old times.”_


End file.
